


A Tragedy of Beauty

by ModernDayRenaissanceWoman



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Flashbacks, Fluff, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Romance, Victor with a K, Victor's past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 12:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11185359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayRenaissanceWoman/pseuds/ModernDayRenaissanceWoman
Summary: Viktor recalls the moment he first cut his hair short. It's not what Yuri was expecting.





	A Tragedy of Beauty

Viktor stood in front of the bathroom mirror, gently tugging at his overgrown silver hair. It’d been a few months since his last haircut, before he decided to travel out to Japan to coach Yuri. His bangs had grown over his nose, almost tickling his chin, and his undercut had begun to creep down his neck, towards his shoulders, kicking out in weird angles. He let out a sigh, debating the best way about going to get it cut. He felt his heartbeat increase at the mere thought of it. His breath came in ragged gasps, and as he stood with his hands in his hair, he knew he could no longer fight the memory clawing at the back of his mind.

It was December 24th, Christmas Eve and the eve before his sixteenth Birthday. He was making his way toward the ice skating rink he spent his time practicing at. Yakov had told him he had a surprise for his Birthday, something he had earned after his remarkable success in winning gold. A light smile played at his lips as he opened the door, expecting a surprise party or an elaborate gift from his figure skating coach, but as he walked inside, he was met with something very different. 

Sitting in the lobby of the rink was a single chair, a large mirror placed in front. Next to the chair sat a small side table with a comb, water bottle bottle, and a pair of gleaming scissors on top. Viktor looked around in confusion. Yakov stepped up behind him. 

“Ah, Viktor, there you are! Are you ready?” He questioned. Viktor looked at the chair apprehensively. 

“Ready for what?” He asked timidly, though in the pit of his stomach he felt as though he knew the answer. He pulled a lock of his waist length silver hair in front of his shoulder and began stroking it nervously. This was not the warm party he had been expecting. Yakov put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Today you are going to get your haircut. I have hired one of the best stylists in Russia to do the job!” He declared. Vikor’s eyes widened. He felt his heartbeat against his ribcage and his hands grow clammy as he continued to stroke the same lock of hair.

“Yakov, thank you, but that won’t be necessary… I-I don’t want to get my haircut…” He protested, nerves bubbling. He felt like he wanted to scream and run the other direction. He didn’t want a haircut, he loved his hair. It was his security blanket. He loved the way it covered his body, and curled around him when he did spins on the ice. It was beautiful and uniquely silver and had never been short. He wasn’t ready for it to be short now. Yakov shook his head.

“Viktor, you turn sixteen tomorrow. You will become a man. You are much too old for such an androgynous look. It is time for you to look like a man. Your fans will love a change in image, you have become too predictable. You don’t want that, do you?” He questioned the soon to be sixteen year old. Viktor felt tears building behind his eyes and he shook his head. Predictability was his biggest fear, and he didn’t want to lose his fans. They made his dreams possible. They considered him a prodigy, and he wanted to stay like that.   
With severe reluctance, he sat in the chair, tears threatening to stream down his cheeks. Yakov smiled and patted his shoulder, a rare display of affection. “This is good for you Viktor. You will see soon this is the right decision.” Viktor nodded distantly. At that moment a woman walked out, holding a large black cape and wearing an apron. She smiled at him. “Hello Mr. Nikiforov, I’ll be cutting your hair today. Your coach and I have selected a style that should really bring out your features. Just hold still and we’ll get to work,” she stated. Viktor nodded solemnly, resigning himself to his fate.

Carefully, the stylist wrapped the cape around his neck, strapping it on tightly. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. She gathered his waist length hair behind him and ran a comb through the silken strands. She couldn’t help but be surprised at the complete lack of tangles, the way the silver strands caught the light and shimmered like a frozen waterfall. It vaguely registered that this would be a tragedy of beauty at her own hands, yet she was assured that this was what everyone wanted. With a sigh, she picked up her pair of scissors. She gathered a lock of his hair and slid the scissors in at chin level. There was a sharp sawing sound, and Viktor watched the ribbon of silver drift limply to the floor. 

As the woman continued to cut, Viktor felt something crack in his chest. Throughout his career as a figure skater, so many things had been taken away from him. His childhood, spent training at the rink instead of in school with the other children. His family, spending all his time training and traveling instead of staying with them. He said goodbye to a normal teenage life, no hope for romance, or going to parties, or watching football games with friends. And now they were taking his hair, the hair that he had adored his entire life. His mother had loved his hair, spending hours combing and oiling it whenever she could so it stayed healthy and long. Now, it was gone.

He stared at the floor, covered in an increasingly thick blanket of silver. He felt his head grow lighter and lighter with every snip. He closed his eyes, trying to keep the tears from slipping down his cheeks. He was stronger than this. It was just hair after all. At least that’s what he tried to tell himself. The final long ribbon fell to the floor with a soft, resounding thud. He felt his chest grow hollow. Behind him, the stylist moved to styling his hair. She clipped the back and the sides short, close to his head, and left the top longer, with bangs that hung over his eye. The stylist ruffled the top, removed the cape from around his neck, dumping a large pile of silver clippings to the floor, and exclaimed, “Tada! All done!’ 

Viktor swallowed hard. Though his eyes were closed, he could feel the absence of weight on his shoulders, the way the winter air blew over his exposed neck. His heart was still beating heavily in his chest. He exhaled sharply. “Viktor, don’t you want to see your hair?” Yakov asked impatiently. He sucked in a deep breath, knowing he would have to deal with it at some point. This was his life now. Carefully, he opened his eyes. He felt his stomach drop.

It wasn’t that the haircut was bad. It fit his face, and he was somewhat happy they’d at least kept his bangs long. It was the fact that this wasn’t what he wanted that made his heart feel like it was shattering. He missed his long hair. He felt naked and exposed and to make it worse, it hadn’t been his choice. He reached a shaking hand over the back of his head, gently stroking the place his ponytail used to sit. Where his fingers used to travel all the way down his back, they were now met with the short bristles of his new undercut. He let out a deep sigh and hung his head. He stood up on shaking legs, trying to avoid the massive pile of hair on the ground. His hair…

Yakov clapped a hand on his back. “What do you think Viktor? Looks good, no? This was the right decision, you will see soon,” he assured. Viktor mustered a weak, uncertain smile. “T-Thank you…” he almost whispered, not trusting his words. “We will get you a new wardrobe to go along with the hair, yes? No longer will you have this androgynous persona. You will be respected for the man you are. Congratulations Viktor.” He nodded softly, his head too light on his neck. “I-I should be getting back,” he muttered, turning around. He ran out before anyone could stop him, and he didn’t stop running. He ran a few blocks, stopping only when he was sure no one had followed him. He collapsed on a park bench, breathing hard. He raised unsure fingers to his hair. 

‘It’s so short…’ he thought to himself. ‘Too short…” He tugged on the silver bangs, wishing for them to be longer, to cover his body like it used to. He inhaled deeply. He felt lightheaded and off balance. He dropped his head in his hands. It was then he allowed himself to cry the tears he’d been so valiantly holding back. They stained his cheeks as choked sobs wracked his body. They had taken it away. They had taken it all away. The hair, the costumes, any semblance of a normal life. He wondered vaguely how much of himself was left. How many pieces he hadn’t sacrificed to the world of ice skating. He sobbed all the harder, his fingers tangled into what was left of his hair.

Eventually his tears ran out, and he pulled himself from the park bench, frozen, and raw, and wounded. He pulled the hood of his coat on to cover the tragedy that was his hair. A tragedy of beauty, he decided. He’d finished his walk home quiet and dejected. He shrugged in response when confronted later by his family, too disheartened to fully explain. He’d crawled into bed and stared at the clock on his bedside table, silently counting down the minutes until midnight. When the numbers finally changed to 12:00, he whispered to himself, “Some Birthday…” before closing his eyes and falling asleep. 

He’d struggled for the rest of that week. He wasn’t used to his own reflection in the mirror, or on the ice. He still felt as though he were looking at a stranger. That wasn’t the worst part though. The worst part was he kept falling. He’d never been one to fall often on the ice. Every now and again, of course. That was expected from any skater. But never this often before, or this hard. He was having trouble adjusting to the lack of weight on his head. He over-corrected his turns, adjusting for the swish of a ponytail that was no longer there. His balance was completely off and he still felt too lightheaded. He felt his confidence plummet. 

Things only grew worse when the public caught sight of it. Newspaper headlines announced the skater’s new look, calling it a tragedy of beauty. People on social media questioned why he had opted for such a short haircut, speculating that he was ill, or recently had his heart broken by a mysterious lover. School girls cried and cursed his new masculine look. Few people supported “his” decision. The more the public fussed and hypothesized, the worse he felt about it. He found it increasingly difficult to be his usual, charismatic self. Yakov noticed this and pulled him aside.

“I am going to say something I have said very few times in my life, and that is I was wrong. The public did not respond to your new look the way I thought they would. We’re going to grow the hair back.”

And at these words Viktor felt his first blossom of relief since the hair was cut. While he hated it now, he didn’t have to keep it this way, as he had feared. His hair would be long and glorious once again. People would regard this as a lapse in judgement, a blip in his otherwise spotless career. He would be himself again. He conveyed his gratitude by throwing his arms around the surprised Yakov.

And so, the hair grew. They let it grow for months, and finally, it started to get long. His bangs covered his face and the rest almost touched his shoulders. Yet it was nothing like the former glory it used to be. It grew in thin and dull, with unfavorable layers left over from the previous style. It was too short to pull into a ponytail, but too long to be of convenience. Viktor found himself missing jumps because his bangs would flop over his eyes and obscure his vision exactly at the wrong second. Though he couldn’t believe it, he missed the easiness of the short hair. He didn’t have to spend hours trying to style it, and it didn’t get in the way. Much to his surprise, he found himself longing for the short hair he had so vehemently hated. 

He knew that Yakov would never approve. He’d been encouraged by how fast Viktor’s hair was growing during the off season. He trusted the fans would be happier the longer it got. Viktor knew he would never approve of what he wanted, but then again, when had that ever mattered? He was after all the person who made him cut it short in the first place. He suddenly grew overwhelmed with the idea that nothing in his life was in his control. He couldn’t pick what he wore, what he ate, who he spent his time with. He wasn’t even allowed to control the length of his own hair. Nothing belonged to him. He had devoted his life to a sport that was so fickle, his fan base depended on the length of his hair. It didn’t matter how much time he spent working on routines, how hard he pushed himself to be perfect. Nobody cared about the carefully crafted routines, his cracked feet, or the way he struggled to come up with something new to keep them happy. Nothing mattered if people didn’t like the way he looked. He was a puppet on their string. He was forced to do whatever he was told and he was sick of it. It all became too much.

With tears in his eyes, he grabbed a pair of bandage scissors from the first aid kit in the men’s locker room at the ice rink. He skitted onto the ice, and sat hard against one of the rink walls. Sobs wracked his body as cold seeped into his clothes, into his skin. He raised the scissors with shaking hands, staring at his reflection in the ice that was so unforgiving. He clutched his bangs in his fingers and sliced them off by his eye. He watched himself in the ice, trying to make things look the same way they had when it was first cut. He severed lock after lock of limp silver hair, the short strands drifting around him like silver rain. Some clumps stuck gently to the tears lining his cheeks. Still, he kept cutting and cutting until he was certain it was short enough, short enough that no one could mistake what he had done. He dropped the scissors onto the ice with a frightening metallic thud. He raised his hands to his hair, running them through the cropped strands over and over, feeling what he had done. The sobs came faster and he doubled over onto himself, his weeping echoing off the ice. 

This was the way that Yakov found him, curled into a ball, surrounded by silver clippings with a stray pair of scissors. He looked nothing like his champion, his prodigy. He rushed over, scooping the skater into an uncharacteristic embrace. “Oh Vitya… what have you done?” He whispered, staring at the broken mess in front of him. The sobs came harder, broken apart only by desperate gasps for air. And Yakov continued to hold him. Repeating his name over and over. “Vitya… Vitya…”

He startled out of his memory, his hands still stuck in his too long hair. He gasped, feeling his body shutter at the weight of his past. It all was so vivid. Although it had been years since that incident, it still stayed with him, the feelings as fresh as they were the day it happened. Without paying much attention, he reached for the pair of scissors under the sink. He was just about to start cutting his bangs when the door opened. 

A shocked Yuri turned three shades of red before babbling out an apology. “Oh Viktor! I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were in here… I should have knocked… I feel so awkward barging in on you… I’m so sorry…” Suddenly he spotted the raised scissors and the bashful look on Viktor’s face. “What are you doing?” He questioned. Viktor raised an eyebrow and Yuri turned redder. “Ah! I’m sorry! That was nosy, here I am invading your privacy…” he kept rambling. Viktor smiled. Yuri’s presence had calmed him slightly. “Yuri, you’re fine. If you want to know, I was just about to cut my hair,” Viktor explained. Yuri’s soulful eyes widened. 

“Wait, you’re cutting your hair?” He asked, baffled. Viktor nodded. “You cut your own hair?” He questioned. Viktor shrugged. “Occasionally, when I don’t have access to a good hairdresser,” he answered. Yuri stared at him. “But why do you want it cut?” He asked, not quite understanding. “Because it is too long,” Viktor replied, his voice quivering. Yuri tried to process this. He couldn’t quite imagine the same skater who had worn his hair long for years having a problem with it being too long. Yet he had kept it short for years… Yuri blinked. There was an awkward silence.

“I could cut it for you…” he quietly offered after a beat. Viktor looked at him in surprise. “You know how to cut hair?” He asked in disbelief. Yuri shrugged. “We live pretty far from a good barber so when I was young my mom used to cut my hair. I didn’t like the way she did it so when I got older, I started cutting it myself. It took a couple tries, but I eventually got pretty good at it,” he responded, pushing his glasses up onto his nose. Viktor looked at him for a moment. After what had happened when he was sixteen, haircuts had caused him anxiety. While he couldn’t cope with it long, having someone stand behind him with a scissors made him nervous. He was always afraid they would cut it too short, or make it different than how he wanted it, taking the control away again. Yet he’d never been very good at doing it himself. He stared at Yuri. Sweet, unassuming Yuri who was so anxious to please, who would never do anything to hurt him, and let out a sigh of relief. He could trust Yuri. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad…

“If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience to you, then I would like that,” he answered, uncharacteristically timid. Yuri grinned from ear to ear and then started running around, collecting all the necessary tools for haircutting. He pulled a chair into the center of the bathroom, took the scissors from Viktor, dug a pair of old clippers out from under the sink, and took a comb and a few brightly colored hair clips out from a drawer. Viktor who had been watching all of this sat in the chair, nervously chewing on his lip. He tried not to let his hands shake. ‘It’s just a haircut…’ he tried to assure himself. Yuri looked at him attentively, then turned red again.

“Uh… maybe um, maybe it would be easier if you took off your shirt..” he suggested clumsily. Viktor let out a small chuckle and pulled his maroon shirt over his head, revealing his sculpted muscles. Yuri swallowed hard, but placed a towel around Viktor’s shoulders to keep the hair off of him. He then combed through the silver locks gently, paying careful attention to soothing the older boy below him. While he couldn’t pinpoint what, he knew something was wrong, and he wanted to help. He let his fingers massage his scalp. Viktor closed his eyes, leaning in like a cat. 

Yuri then took the colorful clips and gathered the longer sections of Viktor’s hair, exposing the overgrown undercut underneath. He turned the clippers on, making Viktor jump. He felt his heart race increase, and sweat was beading at the back of his neck. Yuri rubbed his shoulder. “It’s okay Viktor, this is only going to take a minute. It’ll be over quick,” he assured. Viktor nodded and tilted his head forward in compliance to Yuri’s gentle pressure. He felt the clippers bite their way through the hair at the back of his head, and a dusting of silver slivers sprinkled over his shoulders. He held his breath. No matter how many times he went through with this, it never seemed to get any better.

Yuri moved the clippers over his right ear, bending it carefully so he could get a clear shot at the hair there. He moved to the other side shortly after, and then it was over. Yuri turned the clippers off and put a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “That wasn’t too bad, right? Now for the top. Do you just want me to trim it?” He asked. Viktor nodded, feeling too anxious for his words. As much as he tried, he couldn’t push the feelings away. Even with Yuri behind him, he still felt completely out of control. Yuri released the clips, letting the lengthy top fall over the fresh undercut. Yuri combed it out and picked up his scissors. He soon fell into a nice rhythm, cutting and combing and cutting again. Viktor kept his eyes closed, not wanting to look at the falling silver shards that brought back so many memories. He exhaled sharply. 

“H-Hey Viktor?” Yuri asked nervously, breaking up the silence. Viktor let out a quiet “hmm?” in response. He heard Yuri take in a deep breath. “I-I was wondering… I-I never found out why you cut your hair short in the first place,” he questioned. Viktor’s heart quickened. 

Through all the interviews he’d done after he cut his hair all those years ago, he’d never explained the real reason it was cut, or, more importantly, the reason he kept it short despite so much criticism. It had always been his secret, something he kept inside him that only caused him worry when he thought too much about it. No one had ever known. But maybe it was time to let it out, to let it go. Yuri seemed like a pretty good person to tell. He let out a sigh.

“It… it wasn’t my choice,” he finally explained. Yuri stopped for a moment behind him. “Wait… what?” He asked, surprised. Viktor rubbed his eyes. “It wasn’t my choice. The night before my sixteenth Birthday, Yakov invited me to the skating rink. He said he had a surprise for me. When I got there, instead of finding a party or something else, I found a chair and some haircutting tools. I was surprised to say the least. Yakov told me that because I was becoming a man, I needed to cut my hair and say goodbye to my androgynous persona. I didn’t want to… I’d loved my hair with all my heart. But he said I would lose my fans if I didn’t cut it, so I let them. And they cut it all off, just like that…”

Yuri’s eyes widened. He stopped his cutting and looked at Viktor, who, for the first time was truly vulnerable in front of him. “Viktor… that’s awful… I’m so sorry…” Viktor shrugged. “It is what it is. It happened and there’s nothing I can do about that now. But as a part of that, I have developed a sort of… anxiety about haircuts…” he said, stating the words for the first time ever. Yuri smiled softly. “I understand Viktor. Everybody has something that makes them nervous. But, if it makes you so anxious, and you loved it long so much, why do you keep it short now?” He asked. Viktor looked at him. “I will tell you, but you must keep cutting. The sooner we finish, the better.” Yuri made a small noise then continued with the scissors.

“After they cut it, the public was… upset. They thought my new hair was a tragedy of beauty and that I never should have cut it. It made me feel more insecure than I have ever felt before or have felt since. To make matters worse, I couldn’t adjust to how light it was for a long time. I kept falling on the ice because I was off balance and over-correcting. Yakov noticed this and told me to grow the hair back.”

“At first I was relieved. I had missed my long hair. But as it grew out, I started to hate it. It was thin and looked choppy. It got into my eyes and messed up my jumps. While I hadn’t expected it, I missed the short hair, but I knew Yakov would never approve of me cutting it. Suddenly I became too overwhelmed with how little control I had. So I took a pair of scissors, went onto the ice, and cut my hair myself. After that, I kept it short because that was what I wanted. Ever since everytime it starts to get long,I feel like I’m losing control and cut it as soon as I can,” he finished. 

Yuri was quiet for a moment. Abruptly, he set his scissors down and walked in front of Viktor. He took one look at him, and smashed his lips to his. Viktor let out a surprised gasp, but leaned into the kiss, pulling Yuri closer to him, pleasure coursing through his body. Yuri pulled away and smiled. “When I was younger, I was really sad you cut your hair. I thought it made you look different. But now, I’m glad it’s short. I think it really suits you,” he confessed. Viktor laughed. And for the first time, in a long time, he felt like maybe being out of control wasn’t a bad thing. At least it wasn’t when he was with Yuri.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is also posted on fanfiction.net and was not plagiarized.


End file.
